


Out of Context

by TheAuthorAgain



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, BAMF Peggy Carter, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Battle of Azzano (Marvel), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Secret Relationship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, World War II Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29970540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuthorAgain/pseuds/TheAuthorAgain
Summary: Each chapter is a standalone excerpt from one of my other works. Enjoy!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. The Name

> Excerpt from _HAUNTED._ Takes place immediately after Bucky has turned to dust, from Steve Rogers' POV.

Steve?

Steve?

Steve?

"Bucky?"

Steve?

"Bucky..."

Steve?

"BUCKY!"

The name of my (not dead not dead not dead) lover is torn out of my throat in a guttural, animalistic cry. His (not last not last not last) word echoes in my head.

Steve?

Steve?

My knees buckle as my wide eyes stare at the ground where he (he's still here he's still here he's still here) stood, a shaking hand reaching out to touch the pile of dust that replaced him.

Steve?

"Bucky?" I whisper, "Bucky, come-come on, Bucky, baby, come on, come back. This isn't funny, Buck-Bucky? Bucky, c-" My words stop in my throat and everything seems too sharp, too bright, too blurry, too dark. My chest tightens and I clutch it with the hand that's not on his dust (not dead not dead not dead), my jaw opening and letting out a choked sound.

Steve?

Steve?

"C'mon, Buck, where-where'd you...go..." My jaw quivers as my breath comes quicker, and both hands touch his (not dead not dead NOT dead) dust, supporting me as I fall forward. "Bucky, Bucky, c'mon..."

Steve?

I'm on my hands and knees, simply staring at the ground with wide eyes.

Steve?

Steve?

(NOT DEAD NOT DEAD NOT DEAD)

Steve?

(NOT DEAD NOT DEAD PLEASE GOD NOT DEAD)

"Steve?"

I visibly flinch at the sound. The echoes of His voice intensify, my brain a chorus of Steve? Steve? Steve? that can't, won't stop.

"Steve..." Her voice is shaky. Her hand is, too, as she places it on my shoulder.

Steve?

(not dead)

Steve?

Crumbling to nothing.

Steve?

(not dead?)

Steve?

(please, please, not dead)

Steve?

Dust on my hands.

Steve?

Oh, God, please....

Steve?

PLEASE

Steve?

(dead)

A scream tears out of my throat, loud and painful and unstoppable. My head bows down as my back arches, and I can barely keep myself from planting into the dirt (dust dust dust dead dust).

Steve?

The hand on my shoulder tightens and is joined by another as I yell, the sound cutting off only to be repeated once my lungs are filled again. My eyes are wide open, staring at the (dust) place where he fell, staring and burning from extended exposure to the air.

Steve?

My second scream is interrupted by a bout of frenzied breathing, and my hands balls into fists on the cold ground. The hands on me pull me back, so that I'm sitting, resting against a soft form. Arms wrap around me and a head rests on my shoulder, tears running down my arm.

Steve?

My face scrunches at his voice, and the tension inside me breaks out into another scream.

Steve?

The arms around me murmur soft words I can't make out into my ear as my wrecked voice still tries to vocalize my agony. Because it's agony, it's agony and I can't breathe I can't think I can't I can't not dead not dead oh god he's dead he's DEAD

Steve?

The scream turns into sobs, loud, ugly sobs that maintain a similar volume. My entire body feels limp and I fall back into the person holding me, feel myself die just like...

(not dead not dead not dead)

Steve?

...just like he did. Just like he did. I'm dying, dear God, I'm dying I can't-

Steve?

I feel myself starting to hyperventilate, hear indistinguishable words try to reach me. I don't care, I don't care, there's only one word that matters

Steve?

"BUCKY," I cry out, "BUCKY!"

I hear shooshing, feel hands in my hair, and let the sobs shaking my entire body set me down into the arms holding me. I hold onto them like a lifeline, careful not to hurt them but

(I never had to worry about hurting him)

Steve?

"Bucky," I say again, the name coming out more like a whine, "Bucky, Bucky..."

Steve?

My mouth is open, releasing these horrific cries I can't seem to stop. They'll never stop, never

Steve?

My heart feels like it's pounding out of my chest, everything inside my head is so loud that I think it'll explode.

Steve?

Steve?

I'm shaking, shaking, and being lifted? from the ground by someone strong. I open my eyes and see the (dust) again and fight the arms, reach mine out to go back.

Steve?

(not dead) not leaving I'm not leaving I'm NOT leaving, not again not again NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN

Steve?

My hands grab at the earth, try to get him back.

Steve?

I can't feel the difference between dirt and dust but I try, I pull back against the hands grabbing me and try to get him back, come back, COME BACK

Steve?

Tears blur my vision and more screaming? sobbing? something threatens to come out of my throat again. Dammit (Steve?) you've got to pull yourself together, do this for him, do this for  
Bucky  
you have to you HAVE to

Steve?

And it's useless. He's (not dead not dead) gone, I've (not dead) lost him again (NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN). I feel limp again, find myself on my hands and knees once more. When the hands grab at me again, they meet no resistance.

Steve?

I'm half carries, half dragged away from

Steve?

away from him, away from the only person I ever have and ever will love. I hear screams, crying, but they're nothing NOTHING compared to the

Steve?

the symphony of agony that's threatening to burst out of my skull. All that comes out of me is sobs, though, violent tears that can't stop. I'm weak, dying (not de) as they pull me out of the forest, bring me to a battlefield that's emptier than it should be.

Steve?

I can't. I can't, please, I can't

Steve?

PLEASE

Steve?

PLEASE

Steve?

People are talking, I can hear their voices, dim in the back of my head. Everything other than

Steve?

seems so insignificant, pales in comparison to the horrific idea that

Steve?

That he's

Steve?

(not dead)

Steve?

That he's dead.

Steve?

Steve?

And I can't (PLEASE) I can't stop crying, I can't stop thinking, I can't stop hearing Steve? on loop but all I want is for it to end

Steve?

Please, PLEASE let it end, please

Steve?

Not again, please

Steve?

I can't lose you again,  
Bucky,  
PLEASE PLEASE

Steve?

PLEASE

Steve?

(he's dead he's dead he's dead)

Steve?

And the sobbing, God, the sobbing, it's overwhelming. I can't stop, it's too much

Steve?

And hands are grabbing me more, they're setting me down, voices are saying (something?)

Steve?

And I don't I can't PLEASE

Steve?

And they're taking my arm PLEASE and there's a sharp pain and

Steve?

and it all starts to fade

Steve?

and I fight to stay awake for

for him and

and i can't and

and i need

i can't

i can't

please

Steve?

Steve?

please

please

please

bucky


	2. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a painting.

> Excerpt from _LOVED._

Steve is an incredible person. Truly, he is.

Sometimes the situations we get put in, the shit we have to go through, it distracts me. Makes me forget how much I love him. Or, not so much forget as put aside. Kind of hard to nurture a flourishing romance when the world is burning down and your lover is burning along with it.

But God, he's amazing. Smart, of course, and talented in some many fields. But he's kind, too, and even when he's dying inside and out he can put others first. Beautiful and strong, and so very trusting when he needs to be.

This is what I'm thinking of as I see him pick up a paintbrush, gaze at the canvas I bought him in hopes that he'd use it.

"I dunno, Buck..."

"What don't you know?" I ask, propping my head on my hands, "You're an artist. And sure, it's been a while, but even if a five year old could rival your talent you'd still be one."

He sighs and sets down the brush. "That's not- I- the reason I gave up painting and drawing was- it wasn't because I didn't think I could do it. It... I did it to much. I painted what was inside my head and my art got darker and darker and then a little darker after that and I just kept doing it, I kept going until it got so dark that I scared myself and stopped. And, baby, I don't know if it's safe enough in my head to put all that shit on a canvas."

Shit, that's a lot. How do I... "Okay. Okay, thank you for telling me that. Maybe... how about you just paint me? Or draw, or- or whatever you want. That's- you don't have to go deep in your head to find inspiration, you can just look at me. Paint the good things that are surrounding you."

He considers my words for a moment, nodding faintly. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he repeats more confidently, picking up the brush again. "Thank you. Thank you. Would you mind posing for me, darlin'?"

I smirk at him. "Are we thinking Titanic or Mona Lisa?"

"Mmm..." He pretends to consider it before grinning back. "Your choice."

I stand up and dramatically take off my sweater, earning a hoot from him. I throw a flirtatious look his way as I toss it at him, and laugh when he catches it and buries his face is the soft fabric. Left in a plain T-shirt and jeans, I plop back down on the couch and strike a pose. He snorts at the sight and lays my sweater on the back of his chair, turning more serious as he starts to pick out colors. My smile fades a little, too, and I sit up in a more normal position for him to paint me.

I've been a model for Steve before, so I know how it goes. I like to watch the concentration on his face as he works, and my heart always flutters when that concentration caresses my form with scrutinizing eyes. It's an exhilarating vulnerability, giving myself to him and letting him immortalize me in art.

We break for lunch at about one. "Want a sandwich?" Steve asks, setting down his brush and smiling at me.

"Yeah, sure. Do we have Nutella?"

"Think so. I'll go make it for you." He comes over to kiss my cheek before going into the kitchen. I watch him leave happily, and lie down on the couch.

Steve always insists on making me food when I do this for him, says he feels bad that I just have to sit there for hours on end. I let him do it for me, mostly because it is actually really boring and I like being waited on sometimes. After a few minutes, he comes back in with a silver fucking platter and dramatically offers it to me. I accept gratefully.

"Damn, Steve, this is classy," I snort, picking up the peanut butter, banana, and Nutella sandwich he has lovingly prepared. He winks and goes back in the kitchen, grabbing the peanut butter and jelly he made for himself. "Can I see what you have so far?"

"No way! You only get to see it when it's done."

"Alright, alright." We sit and eat in silence, until Steve perks up suddenly.

"Oh, I almost forgot! I finished your body, so you can read or be on your phone or whatever."

I nod. "Cool. I'll go grab a book."

"I can get it for you, what do you want?"

"Mmm... Gatsby?"

"On it." I clean up our lunch as he races upstairs, and I feel hands wrap around my waist as I rise off the plates. "Book's on the couch, baby. Thanks for washing those."

"No problem." He kisses the back of my neck as he holds me tightly, and I can't help but smile at the fluttering in my heart that never seems to go away. "You ready to go back to work, Da Vinci?"

"If you are."

So I go back to the couch, and he picks up where he left off. I'm glad I get to read now, as much as I like watching him work. The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite books, mostly because it takes place in the years of my childhood.

_In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since..._

I turn page after page, envelop myself in the world of New York in the Roaring 20s. While this story takes place in wealth and extravagance I never got to experience, it still makes me feel like I'm back to chasing stray dogs with Steve in Brooklyn when we were too young to think about things like poverty.

I'm about halfway through the book when I hear his signature "I'm satisfied with how this painting turned out even though I always feel like it could be better" sigh. I finish the paragraph and mark my page, look up to see him watching me. "You done, hon?"

He rolls his eyes at the rhyme, but his eyes crinkle into a smile that warms me from the inside out. "Yep. Wanna see?"

I scamper off the couch and stand behind him, wrap my arms around his shoulders and look at the canvas. A breath tears away from me, awe overtaking my mind.

It's a masterpiece, as all his paintings are. I'm sitting in a relaxed position, the entire background of the painting a deep black, darker than midnight with a new moon. But I'm radiating a soft light, brightening the center of the painting. And just smiling. I mirror my painted self's expression, and shake my head in amazement.

"This is incredible, Steve. Truly. God, I'm so proud of you."

He turns to look at me. "Thank you for making me paint again. Thank you for making my dark days lighter."

Tears prick my vision at that, and I press a lingering kiss to his mouth. It's the only way I can think to articulate the love I feel burning through me. Any light I have comes from a fire he lights inside me. I hope someday he realizes that the joy I bring Steve stems from his own actions.


	3. The Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letters that Bucky writes in my fic "The Endless Blue". Seems very much like the NEC trilogy out of context, which I thought was kind of funny, but enjoy.

> Excerpt from _The Endless Blue._

November 16, 1943

Steve,  
I dunno why people say that war is hell. Then again, I ain't seen much of a war yet. Training is easy, for the most part-or at least, as easy as training can be. Don't you worry about me, kid, I'm doing just fine.  
How's home? Got a girl yet? You've got plenty of options now that all the decent fellas shipped out. I'll be headed overseas soon enough, once these yucks I'm working with get their heads out of their asses. But seriously, ace, tell me about Brooklyn when you write me back. I'm missing it already. Missing YOU already, funny enough. You're a damn fool, shrimpy, but none of these lugs got an inch on you.  
I'll keep this one short. Write me back, hey? I'd like a taste of home, even if it's just in your words.  
Buck

January 3, 1944

Steve,  
You didn't write to me. That's fine, I guess, I'm sure you're busy with work and whatnot (don't got me to pay rent for you, ha), but couldn't you take the time? I'm in Italy now, and it's...just write me back.  
I hope you stopped trying to get into the army. This ain't a place for you, Stevie, it just ain't. You're a good man, a strong man, but you shouldn't have to see as much violence and death as I'm seeing now. You should stay with your books and canvases, go to dance halls and try to take a dame home. Your struggles should be limited to fistfights in an alley and making ends meet. Stay safe for me, alright? I got enough to worry about already.  
Buck

February 22, 1944

Steve,  
Really, kid, would it kill you to write me back? I miss home. I miss YOU. Did you get killed by some idiot all worked up because he didn't get accepted? Are you out on the streets, lonely and cold? I can't stop thinking about you, can't stop worrying. At least it's a distraction.  
I don't wanna tell you about the things I'm seeing, don't wanna bring any part of you into my world. Guess I'll just keep praying you're sleeping in that rickety old bed instead of a rainy street. God, I miss those streets. It's so quiet here, I miss the sound of morning birds and the bickering from that stupid bakery across the street. I swear to the Lord on high, the fella that ran that shop woke up at the crack of dawn just to holler loud enough to keep me from sleeping.  
I miss the noise, though. The sound of people, all sorts of people, not just scared little soldiers being bossed around by other men. I miss waking up to an alarm instead of a yell. I can't believe I used to hear that clock go off and think it was irritating.  
You know I like reading. I can't nowadays-even if I had a book, I doubt I would be able to find the time or the energy to enjoy it. But maybe you could tell me a story? One that isn't about battlefield glories or a girl back home? I'd like to hear your stories.  
Buck

October 30, 1944

Steve,  
Well, now I know why you didn't respond to my letters. Shit, I shouldn't even be writing you this one. You're two tents over, talking to your girl and being all American and shit. I hate it. I'm sorry, Stevie, but I hate it.  
Why couldn't you just stay home, huh? Just had to play the hero? Had to prove to the world that you're worth something? You're worth EVERYTHING, you don't need to risk your life to prove that. I could tell you any damn day you want.  
I'm fucking pissed, Steve. And I know I'll never tell you out loud, I'll never give you a letter or pass a message, but I'm more angry than I've ever been in my miserable life. You left me, just to come get me. You made me think you were dead, just so you could try to be like me. You don't wanna be like me, Steve. I'm not a man you wanna be.  
Don't get me wrong, I'm glad your outsides reflect your insides. I can see you, practically glowing. Basking in the spotlight you've always wanted. Good for you, pal. I'm proud. But you ain't the kid I left back in Brooklyn, you ain't my Steve. My Steve wouldn't leave me like you did.  
I don't think I'll ever be able to tell you what happened in that place, Steve. Not anymore. Seeing you come get me, I thought I was dead and you were an angel. You were an angel come to take me away, let me just be happy and sleep with the sounds of the neighbors talking on the other side of a thin wall and drunk fellas hooting at girls on the road instead of gunfire and muffled sobbing. I thought I was safe-and I was. I thought you were mine-and you were. Then. But the second she looked at you, I was chopped liver. Will you look at me if I grow some gams? Will you see me, REALLY see me, if I borrow her lipstick and talk all sweet?  
Walking back to camp, I wanted to tell you. Tell you about the doctors and the cutting and the shots and the pain that never stopped, even once that factory was burned to the ground. But you weren't there, Steve, Captain America was. And I'm not sure I like the guy so much.  
He's cold, you see. Analytical, practical, distanced. Nothing like the passionate artist I know, the one who'll explode at guys in the street and listen well when you got something to say. Where'd he go, Steve? Where'd you go? Did you think I'd be fine after weeks of torture? Did you figure "oh, that's just Bucky, who cares about him." Guess no one cares about me anymore, if you don't.  
I'm glad you got your girl. Can hear her laughing right now, in fact, you gotta be charming the hell out of the broad, you sonuvabitch. Maybe Cap'll come around once he's had his fill of Peggy Carter. I'll tell him I'm fine, Steve, because he ain't you and he doesn't deserve to know the truth. I'll tell YOU the truth, though. Guess an empty page is the only one who'll listen to me.  
Buck

November 12, 1944

Steve,  
Y'know, I think I misjudged you. You ain't as bad as I thought, guess you were just hopped up on adrenaline or victory or something. Woke up screaming last night, you came rushing in. You held me, like I held you all those years when we couldn't afford heating and I was all you had to keep warm. You held me, you let me cry, and you didn't say a word in the morning. You were YOU again.  
It's still taking some getting used to, seeing you look all muscly. Not that it's bad, it's just different. You still walk the same, though, which is pretty damn funny. You act like you're that scrawny little kid, the one who'd lose a fight to a toothpick, while standing around in that giant body.  
I dunno why I'm writing you letters you'll never read. I dunno why I'm taking the time or the paper. It's...nice, I guess. To think I've got something waiting for me back home. To think you're still back home, safe in your bed, far away from this shitstorm. Don't get me wrong, kid, I'm damn glad you're here with me. I'm thrilled that I get to joke with you, talk about home with someone who understands. Just wish we could be together somewhere else.  
Philips said I could go home, Steve. I wanna go home. But I said no, because home ain't home without you. You're my home, cheesy as it sounds, and I couldn't even think of leaving you when you've dug yourself into a hole this deep. You don't understand, Stevie. You haven't seen it yet, the bodies just tossed around on the ground like dolls God played with and abandoned. The kids, fuck, the kids, fighting because they have to and dying because there ain't no God on the battlefield. There's only fear, and fire, and people who don't wanna be here anymore but gotta.  
I don't have to be here anymore. I could LEAVE. But I won't, because you're an asshole but you're my asshole and you're making me stay without knowing. You're just too damn innocent, blue eyes sparkling behind that ridiculous helmet of yours. You ain't seen the things I've seen, and I gotta be here when you realize that you fucked up bad. I gotta comfort you, Lord help me, because when you hurt I hurt and I can't take no more pain.  
I won't tell you this, Steve, I'll just write it down so it doesn't spill out of my mouth when I've had too many drinks. I'll protect you, I always will.  
Buck

December 26, 1944

Steve,   
Why you gotta be so stupid? I mean, seriously, it should be illegal how dumb you are. Talked to your girl, she told me everything. Jumping on a grenade? Jumping out of a goddamn PLANE? You're a fucking idiot.  
I love you all the same, though, Lord help me. She said those things like they were something to be proud of, like they were something brave. She doesn't know you like I do, she doesn't know that you're just a reckless little shit who will do anything for the people he cares about. Just you wait til he's jumping out of a plane to save YOUR ass, Peggy Carter, then you'll get why I'm pissed.  
I don't like her, Steve. I know it ain't fair, but I don't like her. You're not the same, and I can't help but feel like she's the reason why. She ain't like all the girls we knew back home, the ones who'd bat their eyelashes and toss their hair over their shoulders so you could take a good look at their collarbone. She's strong, like you. She's funny, crude. I got no reason to hate her like I do, but I do. Why do I hate her, Steve? Wish you weren't so head over heels for the dame so we could figure it out together.  
Buck

January 5, 1945

Steve,  
Damn you. I never thought-DAMN you, Rogers.  
I'm a fan of a pretty girl. Broads twirling in pretty dresses, leaning down so you can see what they're hiding behind em. But fuck, Stevie, you're killing me over here. I ain't queer, alright? So why are you making me look twice when you take off that silly little costume of yours at the end of the day? Why don't those pretty girls look the same as they did back in Brooklyn?  
Not that I'm seeing many pretty girls nowadays. Middle of the wilderness, that's where we are, huddling up at night so we don't lose our toes to the cold. I've done this a thousand times before, Steve, I've held you to protect you for years. Why is it different now?  
I told you a little bit of what happened in Azzano. We were on watch together, quiet coating the air. And you heard me, Steve. You listened. I don't remember much anymore, most of what happened when I was strapped to that table's been lost to the fuzzy parts of my memory, but you heard what you had to say. And I swear to God, I saw a tear on your face through the dark.  
I always knew I loved you. But this...this isn't the kinda love I'm supposed to have. You ain't my brother, it doesn't feel like the way I love Eugene or my Pa. It feels like the way I loved Dolores, forever ago, and that scares me.  
I can't lose you, Steve. I won't tell you, I promise. I can keep a secret if it means you stay safe, if it means you stay mine. Lord knows I've done it before. I won't drag your soul down to hell with me, because you deserve to spend eternity with your Mama and rest with the angels. Always my angel, kid, you'll always be the one who saved me when you thought I was saving you.  
This love don't feel like a sin, though. It feels like heaven on earth, it feels like a choir singing your name. It's warm, it's something good in the middle of a den of evil. I won't kill this love, it ain't a Nazi, and I couldn't hurt any part of you if I tried. You've got my heart, Stevie. You've got it, even if it's hidden behind a wall of deflecting jokes and careful lies.  
Yours,  
Buck

January 25, 1945

Steve,  
You're beautiful, you know that? You deserve to hear it said a thousand times, because it's true. Wish I could tell you out loud, but I'll make do with words on paper that'll never be said. Is this a love letter, now? Are these notes I'm hiding in the secret pocket of my pack just sappy things I'd mock the hell out of if I didn't write them? Maybe. I don't mind.  
You were always beautiful, even when you were built like a bird. Those eyes, those lips, that voice. Beautiful. I ain't used to thinking of fellas the way I think of you, but God, I don't care. I can't care, because I'm falling harder every time I see your face.  
You were always strong, in spirit if not body. Your strength has always lied in your morals, the way you refuse to back down from a fight you know you can't win. It annoys the hell out of me, when you do that, but I've always secretly loved it. Because it's YOU, Steve, you're so true to yourself that it hurts. Wish I could be myself, too, if it wouldn't get me hurt.  
Because that's important, too. The whole "crime against humanity, betrayal of God's plan" side of loving you. I've never been much for rule following, you know that, but it'd be nice if how I feel wasn't so goddamn evil in everyone's eyes. I guess it don't matter, so long as I can stay by your side.  
Yours, always yours,  
Buck

March 1, 1945

Steve,  
Switzerland sure is pretty this time of year. I mean, dead of winter and all, it ain't exactly pleasant, but I like it all the same. You've got us on some mission tomorrow, but I can't worry about that. It's just been a while since I wrote you, figured I oughta say something while I've got the time.  
You and Carter are holed up somewhere, making plans. She's lovely, loud, exactly right for my best guy. I'm glad you're happy, Stevie. Even if it breaks my heart.  
I tried to write a poem, y'know. Been drafting it in my head all day. Wanna hear? It's probably shit, but don't judge too harsh. You know I ain't a poet.

"Forever land  
A breathing view  
Is shrouded in  
The Endless Blue.  
The sky is clear  
I'm here with you  
There's nothing more  
I'd rather do  
Than sit a while  
Because it's true-  
You're better than  
The Endless Blue."

You really are, kid. And don't you dare forget it.  
All my love,  
Buck


	4. When Skies Were Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one scene from TFA.

> Excerpt from _Our Love Is Warm._

Steve had expected many things when he was accepted into the war effort. This was not one of them.

He was strong. And was an experience unparalleled by anything he'd ever known, being able to live his life unshackled by the restrictions of the body he was born in. Steve thought that once he became this new man, his only struggles would be the perils of war and the icy chill of Bucky's absence. He was sorely mistaken.

It had been a year. One year as a puppet, a fraud dancing around in a brightly colored outfit that masked his sorrow and drowned him in comic books and teddy bears. He just wanted to go home, wake up to the Brooklyn skyline and a lover's arms every hopeful morning. But instead he was paraded about and objectified, turned into the face of a war effort he lost faith in every day.

Children loved him, climbed on his arms and begged for his autograph. He would oblige, but remember the days when he was their size. The memories sent a shiver coursing through him, and he buried them to pretend that he was happy in this new life he had doomed himself to live.

And then it all changed. At first, it didn't seem like it was for the better. He felt himself become a hair warmer as the plane carted him to the warfront, the thought of his James becoming nearer bringing a smile to his face. Though he was losing hope that he may see his love again, Steve still prayed that Europe may grant him the reunion he had dreamed of every night since the day they parted.

He found himself in front of an assembly of soldiers, tired and broken men who wanted nothing more than to see him mocked. This was understandable, of course, but their harsh words still cut Steve's morale. He left the stage quickly, cursing himself under his breath and wishing he could have soft words spoken to him instead by a raspy voice he could listen to all day.

Steve later sat on the edge of the stage, sketching out a crude drawing of a dancing monkey and bathing in self loathing thoughts. "Hello, Steve," a lovely voice intoned, and Steve looked up to find Peggy standing there. He was grateful for her support, of course, but the lingering glances she threw his way did anything but make him feel comfortable.

"Hi. What are you doing here?"

"Officially, I'm not here at all." Her red lips curled into a smile. "That was quite a performance."

Steve let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah. Uh... I had to improvise a little bit. Crowds I'm used to are usually more uh... twelve."

"I understand you're 'America's New Hope'?"

"Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit," he responded, voice becoming more dead as he repeated facts told to him by people who only saw the body given to him by a lab experiment.

"Is that Senator Brandt I hear?"

"At least he's got me doin' this," Steve defended, "Phillips would have had me stuck in lab."

Peggy looked at him with piercing serenity. "And these are your only two options? A lab rat or a dancing monkey? You were meant for more than this, you know."

"You know for the longest time I dreamed about coming overseas and being on the front lines. Serving my country. I finally get everything I wanted, and I'm wearing tights." Those last words tore their way out of his mouth in quiet loathing, but a car honking kept him from saying more. He turned to see an ambulance arrive with wounded soldiers, men carrying burdens Steve couldn't even imagine. "They look like they've been through hell."

"These men more than most. Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him and less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the one-oh-seventh. The rest were killed or captured."

Steve's heart skipped a beat. "The one-oh-seventh?" He ran to Colonel Philips' tent without a word, ignoring Peggy's questioning words as she followed briskly. "I need the casualty list from Azzano," he demanded, before Philips could say a word.

"You don't get to give me orders, son."

"I just need one name. Sergeant James Barnes from the hundred and seventh." Steve felt himself begin to panic, but hid his fear under a mask of determination.

"You and I are gonna have a convers-" Steve cut him off quickly.

"Please tell me if he's alive, sir. B-A-R..."

"I can spell." Philips paused, and Steve felt a little sick as pity touched the man. "I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count. But the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry."

"What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?"

"Yeah, it's called winning the war."

Steve began speaking faster, desperate to have anything give. "But if you know where they are, why not at least-?"

"They're thirty miles behind the lines. Through the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save. But I don't expect you to understand that, because you're a chorus girl."

Oh, bitch. "I think I understand just fine."

"Well then understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters correctly, you got some place to be in thirty minutes."

Oh, _bitch._ "Yes, sir, I do." And he swept out without another word.

"What do you plan to do, walk to Austria?" Peggy asked. Steve kind of wanted her to leave, but responded nonetheless.

"If that's what it takes."

"You heard the Colonel, your friend is most likely dead."

Steve shuddered at the thought and snapped, "You don't know that."

"Even so, he's devising a strategy. If he detects-"

"By the time he's done that, it could be too late! You told me you thought I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?"

"Every word." She said it with utter sincerity, and Steve felt in that moment more respect for her than he ever had before.

"Then you gotta let me go."

Peggy smiled a little, though not from joy. "I can do more than that."

And so Steve found himself on a plane, piloted by a snarky man he couldn't say he liked very much. His stomach churned with anxiety, but he shoved down his fear to better prepare himself for the most important task of his life.

The battle he faced going towards that intoxicating heat, it was terror and exhilaration's love child dancing on the precipice of a madman's desperation. Steve fought brutally, with a force he had never possessed in all those back alley brawls Bucky had to pull him away from. Had to save him from. I'll save you, Steve thought, I'll be the knight in shining armor this time.

He saw a cage filled to the brim with soldiers. He let them out, scanning beaten faces for that one he loved so much. But the cage was cold- warmer than other places, to be fair, but cold nonetheless. "Who are you supposed to be?" One of those faces demanded, and Steve hesitated in his deliberation of how to respond.

"I'm...Captain America."

A hurried exchange of questions and orders passed, but Steve's mind lingered on the man he had come for. "Is there anybody else? I'm looking for a Sergeant James Barnes."

"There's an isolation ward in the factory, but no one's ever come back from it," another man answered, and Steve felt his stomach lurch. Please be alive, Bucky. Dear God, please let him be alive.

He swept his way through dark hallways, feeling a heat in his chest grow as he approached the area the men said Bucky would be. And then... "Sergeant. 32557..."

Steve ran into the room, and saw the most horrifying sight of his entire life. "Bucky?" he said with wide eyes, "Oh, my God."

The beautiful man Steve had fallen in love with what felt like a lifetime ago was strapped to a table, surrounded by instruments and equipment Steve didn't even want to know the purpose of. He gently undid the restraints as fast as he could, as a slurred voice blessed his ears. "Is that..."

"It's me. It's Steve."

"Steve?" He frowned.

"Come on."

A tired but joyful smile erupted on his face. "Steve."

Steve practically had to carry Bucky out of there, not that he minded in the least. "I thought you were dead," he said in an exhale, relief and fear and shock painted onto every syllable.

"I thought you were smaller..."

They ran into Schmitt and Zola on a bridge, fire erupting from the caverns of the factory Steve was glad to see burn. He held Bucky up against his side as he exchanged words with the Nazi scum, anger momentarily distracting him from concern.

And then Schmitt peeled off his face, and disgust distracted him from anger. "You don't have one of those, do you?" Bucky asked weakly.

"You are deluded, Captain. You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind. Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. Without fear!" Schmitt was a madman, deluded and past the point to be considered sane.

"Then how come you're running?" Steve retorted to the ascending pair of men. He received no response. Steve and Bucky were left alone on a catwalk over flames, the only escape in the form of a thin gantry over the destroyed factory. "Let's go. One at a time."

Bucky made it across fine, but as he reached the end the support collapsed behind him. "Gotta be a rope or something!" he yelled across the gap.

"Just go! Get out of here!" Steve wasn't about to let the man he had just saved die alongside him.

Bucky responded immediately, voice raw and words guttural. "No! Not without you!"

Though he knew it was a long shot, Steve recognized the only way to keep them both safe. Lord knows Bucky wasn't about to leave him there, that lovable idiot. He prepared himself... and jumped, crashing into Bucky on the other side.

The rest of their escape was relatively easy, and they were able to meet up with the other men on the outside. Steve was proudly introduced by Bucky to his comrades, men who James claimed were the best soldiers God ever made. Steve was happy to meet them, though far more happy to be in the everlasting heat of Bucky's presence.

They caught up on the long walk back to the base, wanting to touch each other but staying apart for appearance's sake. Steve told Bucky about the not-so-glamorous adventures of Captain America, and was given tales of the true heroics of the 107th division in return. He could hardly keep a grin off his face, though their situation was dire, because no peril was real when he had James Barnes by his side.

After their first full day of walking, the men decided to camp in a small meadow in the forest. They had no tents, no food, no way to keep warm other than each other. So no one was too surprised when Steve and Bucky went a bit further away from the others, cuddled a bit closer than other situations would deem proper.

"I missed you so much," Steve whispered, once countless stars had lulled most of the men to sleep. "I thought about you every day."

Bucky smiled, and risked a small kiss on Steve's mouth. "I missed you too, love. Was so worried my dumb little punk was gonna get himself into a fight he couldn't win. I guess my fears were valid." Steve chuckled softly, and just looked at Bucky's bloody and dirty face, illuminated by the moonlight. "I love you. So fucking much."

"Language," Steve responded slyly, earning a light punch to the stomach.

"Oh, c'mon, that was one time!" Bucky whisper-yelled, and Steve muffled his giggles against Bucky's neck. The laughter faded into a contented sigh, and Bucky tightened his arms around Steve. "We're here now, though. We might die in these woods, or on a battlefield, but we're together. And that's what matters, right?"

"Always." Steve pulled away slightly to look at Bucky's face again, and kissed it just because he could. "You know I love you too, right?"

"Yeah, Stevie. I know."


End file.
